Two Predators
by AriannaK
Summary: (Idk about this story...I kept writing it...and finished writing it...but idk...) A predator warrior makes a small mistake on a hunt, which becomes his responsibility to fix if he is to maintain his honor. He doesn't like the idea however, of raising anything as cute as a leopard kitten. (Is short, but might need to break it up into like three chapters to make it easier to read?)


Two Predators

Its eyes, though dreary pale yellow in color, were as intense as that of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh. Regal, calculating, yet leisurely as it surveyed the expanse of snow from its rocky perch. Huge paws supported the body of a big muscular cat with a thick pelt of white painted over with tan, silver, then finally black spots. The end of its long, thick tail flicked back and forth in thought or boredom.

It was a gorgeous and endangered species. A female, and at the peak of its health as well. Nevertheless, this hunter was now being hunted.

His high rank granted him certain privileges, so when the opportunity arose to kill a ghost cat, a snow leopard, he rose to the occasion. He had been granted a permit to kill one and only one of these great cats. Its skull would be a testament to his rank and skill. Its pelt would lie under him as he slept, on top of his bed with all the rest of his rare and exotic furs. He would probably be one of the only yautja ever to have killed a cat of this species, and one of the last.

His invisible muscular form crept closer, boots quietly compacting snow, until the wind decided to change direction. The cats pink nose flared as it tested the air. It did not trust what it smelled. It began a slow trot away from him, thick tail swaying behind it. He followed the footprints in the snow, keeping his distance, but maintaining sight of the cat.

The cat kept stopping to glance behind it suspiciously, but would never see its stalker. Hiding the snow that stuck to his body, and projecting it as it would fall without him interrupting it, was no small feat of technology. However, his gear was specifically designed for camouflage in sandstorms, blizzards, thunderstorms, and other similar environments. The cat continued all the way to its den, a small rocky indent in the mountainside clear of snow. It flopped down but kept its head up and alert.

He got as close as he thought he could without disturbing the cat, waited, and watched. He gave the animal a good few minute rest. Then, he made his move.

He was not sure what the cat's reaction would be. This species he had heard to be very secretive and easily spooked. They ran from danger, more so than other big cats. He might have to chase the animal until it had no choice but to turn and fight. However, as he let his cloaking device drop, the cat stood. Its lips rose to bare its sharp white teeth, and it let out a snarling hiss. His body tingled at hearing such a powerful threat.

With the thrill of the hunt causing his heart to pound, his hand gripped his combi stick and slid the button for it to extend. To his delight and surprise, the cat lurched forward some. His brown silky dreads swinging behind him, he quickly closed the gap between them.

The cat was smart-going for his soft throat, launching in for a direct kill, and it was big enough to knock him off balance if he let it. It had piercing canine teeth and claws like knives. Its long tail provided it great balance. Its thick fur gave it some protection. It had powerful muscles, was capable of quick reactions, and had a wild unpredictable savagery to it.

But he had muscle as well, conditioned for such strenuous work, unmatched experience, and an unbelievably sharp metal spear-like weapon to which he was trained in its use. To block and deliver hits, throwing, stabbing, using it for his own balance and stability, and more. What was difficult, was disabling the cat without ruining its beautiful pelt.

They grappled and in the end, he had to wrestle the cat to the ground, suffer the wrath of the sharp claws that dug into his flesh, and snap its neck.

A wave of pleasure swept threw him at hearing the loud cracking of bone, and he let the cat fall from his arms. He stood, snow sprinkling off his loincloth covering, and he stared down at the large cat, body a motionless heap at his feet. It took a minute for his mind to calm and the adrenaline to thin in his veins. He looked at his wounds, poking at them through his black body netting. They were nothing more than scratches to him, oozing bright florescent green blood, on his arms and torso. He began to dress his kill.

A decorative ceremonial dagger easily made the cuts before he began to peel the skin away. A duller knife was used to remove the full pelt from the body without damaging the fur. He preserved it to be worked on later, rolled it up, and tied it to his side. He chopped off the cats head and all he had to do then with the skin removed was poor a green vital of liquid over it, which then ate away all but the bone.

He rubbed it with a protective polish, and then stood admiring the skull. It was a short, compact skull, with thick sloping brow ridges. Large eye sockets, with thick zygomatic arches on the sides protecting the eyes. Canine teeth so long, at a glance, you could think it was from a young saber tooth tiger.

He would leave the body to nature, to scavengers, as he had everything he needed and his combi-stick was already tucked away. However, as he took one step away he heard something he really wished he had not-a tiny sneeze.

His movements paused, listening to the wind, waiting to hear that noise again. When all was silent, he almost continued to his ship. Instead, he strapped the skull to his hip with a loop around the eye socket and was compelled to walk towards the den. His red-green eyes shifted behind the metal mask, quickly finding the source of the noise. Honestly, he despised what he found.

Curled up on its side, blissfully asleep, and utterly aware of the fight that had just occurred was a fuzzy kitten. It possessed short rounded ears, a big pink nose, small mouth, and big paws it would have to grow into. He could not help the disgusted growl that emanated from him.

He thought he had been attentive. When he had watched the cat, he had not seen any mates. Moreover, when he had scanned the cat's body it had not shown that it was pregnant or breast-feeding-so the kitten had to be old enough to be on solid foods. When he had watched the adult at the den, it had not paid any affection to the kitten to draw his attention to it.

The kitten would starve if other predators did not eat it first. He had consent to kill one cat only, and though he would not be the one to kill it, he felt he was directly involved. The honorable thing to do would be to fix the situation...Oomans had animal facilities that could care for it. He could raise it as a pet on his planet, a living trophy.

Yet, dropping it in the hands of oomans was equivalent to asking for help or passing work to another, and the yautja frowned upon such behavior.

Taking it to his planet would not help their declining populations, and as a yautja warrior, he did not visit his planet often. The cat would live on his small, confined ship, as his life was hunt after hunt with little in between. He would not be distracted by clan affairs, mating-or pets.

Therefore, he would do what the yautja were best at: hunting and teaching others to hunt.

He would stay and raise the cat, hunt for it and feed it, protect it, until it was able to do so on its own. He was not very happy about the decision, but he felt it was his responsibility. So first thing was first, he grabbed the dead cat's carcass, a headless mess of red muscle and ligaments, and slung it over his shoulder to carry it far away. The smell would attract other predators, and the tiny kitten did not need that sort of attention. Next, he dropped off the skull and fur at his ship and sent the ship to hover in space in hibernation, awaiting his signal.

He came back to find the fuzzy kitten still curled up asleep in the same spot, safe and sound, so he engaged his cloaking device and went back to the spot where he had dumped the kill. When the kitten woke up, it would no doubt be hungry, and the smell of death would attract something to bring it.

A few birds found the carcass first, and then a fox. He was good at throwing his spear even long distances, and the metal plunged into the small animal's chest. He collected and dressed the kill completely, and brought back the meat.

He sat down in the snow next to the kitten, and it finally stirred, opening its light grey eyes to stare at him. The kitten promptly stood, backed away on wobbly paws, and gave a short hiss. It stumbled onto its side before turning around and scampering away. It stuck close to the den, smelling around and making pathetic mew sounds before it fell asleep again. He knew the kitten would wait for its mothers return-and she would never come. He buried the meat in the snow for later, and stared up at the star-blotched sky, the full weight of his decision sinking in.

As the sun began to rise, the kitten was still asleep, albeit in a different spot. He retrieved a piece of meat, held the sliver between his clawed fingers, and tried to approach the kitten. It stumbled away from him. He withheld a growl of annoyance.

Only when he left the meat in the snow and engaged his cloaking device did the cat seem to feel safe enough to eat. He watched the ridiculous kitten, and the way it ate. At first, it seemed content just to lick it-tilting its head back and forth greedily lapping it all over. Then, it finally seemed to realize this was an insufficient way to consume nutrients, and began to chomp at the piece of meat-picking it up out of the snow just to leave tiny teeth dents over the entire surface.

The only thing the kitten did that gave him some hope for its future was the fact that it kept lifting its head to scan its surroundings occasionally. It did not get so engrossed in eating that it did not pay attention to smell, sight, and be ambushed. Whether this was instinct, a learned behavior, or the kitten merely getting distracted, it was a good sign.

He would have stayed cloaked, but teaching the thing to hunt when he was invisible to it was never going to work. The cat would have to come to accept him eventually.

He let the tiny cat finish its meal, then he let his cloaking device drop, and he stepped forward. The cat gave a fleeting hop and then stumbled away to find a hiding spot in the jagged rocks. He pursued the cat, cornered it, and reached out to touch it. It reacted as most animals did when cornered, gaining fear that fueled its ferocity. It made low noises, licked it lips in anxious nervousness, hissed, and its hair stood on end-but that effect only made the cat look more fluffy, not menacing.

He would see what this thing was made of.

He reached out his hand, the cat pressing its back against the rock as he got closer. One of the cat's paws lashed out at his hand, sharp little nails grazing his tough skin, not even leaving marks. He pressed closer. He could see the fear and panic in the little cats eyes.

He wanted to know if the cat would run or fight. If it would zip away to the side or under his legs. Alternatively, if it would dare to bite something so much bigger and more lethal than it. Its mother had chosen to fight, to protect its cub to the death, and he hoped this kitten had inherited her fighting spirit.

The kitten sprang up, forepaws wrapping around his hand, teeth chomping down on his middle finger, and both back paws lifting to kick and scratch at his arm. It unlatched itself quickly and went zipping away in the snow.

His tusk-tipped mandibles twitched thought, enjoying such a bold attack. He looked at his hand. Though the kitten was no domestic household-sized kitten, its teeth and claws still had not been sharp enough to pierce his reptilian skin. He went after the cat again.

The stress emanating from the fuzzy little kitten was off the charts, yet he felt his actions were necessary. Yautja pups were trained from birth-not to fear, and not to feel pain. For pups, exposure was the very first lesson.

Stepping into a yautja nursery would believe you had stepped into a dimension of hell. Creatures loomed from the ceilings, bearing fangs and claws. Carved statues of lethal aliens made up the walls, tricking the eye in a way that it looked like a living mesh of bodies and imminent death. Most would cringe, but to a yautja, these circling aliens would become mere prey in their eyes.

You do not fear the monster under your bed, you hunt and kill it.

This cat, as small as it was, needed to be taught that lesson-not to fear. He was something new and strange to the cat and so the cat feared him, yet exposure would easily remedy that. He trapped the kitten against the rocks again, and steadily got closer. This time, the cat was not as hesitant to bite.

He did this repeatedly until the cat was less reactive, only striking once his hand was pressed to its fur. Eventually, the kitten did not bite at all-but he found this to be a lack of energy more than a lack of fear. He left the kitten alone for a moment to curl up and sleep, and then he crept closer. The kitten peeked at him, moved away, and then slumped back down. He moved closer. The kitten moved away, and he moved closer. As he anticipated, the kitten gave up before he did and allowed him to sit beside it as it slept.

When it woke, he went through the task of feeding it. It still would not take the meat from his hands, but when he stepped away it did eat, which was better progress than before when he was under his cloaking device.

Then, he began to stalk the cat, trying to get it used to him. The kitten however, would have none of it.

Instead of running, it hissed and its fur bristled as it glared up at him with furiously cute grey eyes.

Such a display deserved an answer: He roared back in response.

The kitten flipped back its ears, crouched licking its lips nervously, but did not retreat. When he reached out to the kitten, it zipped away and their game of chase continued until the kitten was worn out yet again. It was a short repeat of him moving closer as the kitten inching away, and then it gave in again and was fast asleep with him sitting beside it.

He stared out at the vast expanse of snow and watched the clouds and animals come and go. He did not sleep as often as a cat, or even as often as every night, seeing as his planet's days were longer than earth's. He did not need to relieve himself as often or eat as often...which left him to some boredom. He was to raise and watch over the kitten, yet the kitten took naps often, and so he needed something else to occupy himself with. Moreover, if he was going to take the time out of his warrior-lifestyle anyway, it needed to be a good hobby.

Therefore, he decided to turn this into an opportunity to train and hone his skills, and he decided to do it with as little aid as possible. His ship quickly returned to him and he stepped aboard to undress. He did away with the combi-stick, plasma castor, and other weapons. He unstrapped all his armor, polished it, and tucked it away. The technology of his homeostasis netting kept his body warm, so he removed his boots. He needed his mask for the breathing apparatus, but turned off all other functions. And he needed his wrist controls to get back in touch with his ship.  
>Netting, mask, controls, and loincloth-this was about as bare as a yautja would ever be on a foreign planet. If he wanted a weapon to hunt with, he would have to make one from the materials the environment provided.<p>

It would not be hard, yet it would be a good lesson in being thankful for all that he had. Instead of a fur topped bed in a temperature and air controlled ship, he would have snow and rock. Instead of a weight-calibrated spear that never needed to be sharpened, he would need to make a breakable spear from wood, rock, and/or bone. Only snow would be his source of drink. The only things to occupy his day would be training, preparation, and hunt-though that was not a deviation from his usual day by far.

When he returned, he found that the cat trying to dig up some of the meat he had buried. The cat was working for its meal, and he decided that even though it could not hunt, that the cat could still work for its food.

He allowed the cat to feed itself, and then he shoved the snow back to bury the kill again. Then, the back to the chase.

His method of teaching eventually backfired on him.

The kitten went from running, to fighting, to playing.

Soon, he could not get the cat to leave him alone. It followed him when he was close to the den, bit at his toes and latched onto his ankles. When he sat down, the cat climbed up his arms to swat at his thick strands of hair, making the black nickel beads clink together. The only way to get it to stop was to tire it out-which involved him wrestling the kitten with one hand until it fell asleep in his lap.

He looked down at the spotted ball of hair that was the helpless kitten, his silky brown dreads draping down, and he muttered, "Tarei'hasan."

It meant "little insect" in yautja and was commonly used with referring to unworthy opponents or unworthy prey. He almost stood up to spill the kitten from his lap, but instead, found himself watching the rise and fall of cats little chest.

Weeks past in much the same way, playing for hours teasing and wrestling the tiny thing with his hand because kitten would do nothing else, beside sleep. How he fed the kitten changed dramatically however.

He went from trying to hand feed it, to leaving meat out, to letting it dig up the meat, and finally to making the cat fight for it. The kitten had to wrestle his hand for a piece of meat every morning, leap up a few feet to reach its lunch, climb up to his shoulders for dinner, and chase him for its desert. The kitten was getting smarter, faster, and stronger already.

Well, not that smart.

As time passed and the cat grew in size, the young cat had picked up a habit of following him on hunts, which suited him perfectly. He no longer used his cloaking device to hunt and the cat could learn how to hunt just from watching. From up top a rocky perch he watched a herd of sheep-like animals as they traveled, ever slowly getting closer. He did not know the species name, but they possessed outstretched horns with a slight "m" curve to them, and were quite plentiful around the area. Snow did not provide much camouflage for him, so he traveled among the rocks to hunt. His hand gripped a short spear of sharpened bone, carved with symbols and the name of the gods, Cetanu and Paya—one the god of death, the other the god of life.

Positioning and timing were key. He had to be in the rocks, as not to be seen, and he had to stay upwind so they would not smell him. As well, he had to be completely still and hiding before they reached the edge of the rocks or they might hear him coming, and timing played into when he would strike as well.

Instinct fueled the cat to follow him into position, and simply the smell and sight of the sheep had the cat crouching and stalking silently behind him. The soft fur of its belly slid in the snow as it moved with calculatingly slow steps. Its nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of the sheep greedily. Its small round ears were flipped forward, listening intently, and its grey eyes were fixed on the herd.

Timing, it lacked, and only trial and error at this point would teach the young cat any better.

When the compulsive young cat could not take it any longer, it launched its legs into action and ran at the herd. A deep growl pulsed threw him as he watched. The cat was too early, for one—too far away. Secondly, it did not stick to one target but merely the closest one as they scattered and crossed paths. As he expected, all of the sheep disappeared and cat flopped down in the snow, its chest heaving.

Another time, another hunt, they stood like statues beside each other watching a couple of curled-horned goats trek through the snow. The cat was being patient, waiting for him to start running before it charged. The goats were steadily getting closer. His own bodies desire for the kill was beginning to rush threw his veins with increasing strength—and then out of the corner of his eye, a very fat and fluffy squirrel-like animal popped out of a hole not far from them. The cat's body jerked into action, racing after the fat animal only to have it quickly duck back into its hole.

He could not communicate to the cat its mistakes, and so he had to remain calm and patient, and continue to stage hunts.

When he was younger, he had shown so much advanced skill that he had trained others of his age, and trained even the clumsiest unblooded teenagers to pass their chiva's with ease. He started with a shaping of their emotions, to the way they stood and managed balance, then onto defense, to offense, he taught them the best way to manage weapons, all the way up to advanced moves and techniques of the hunt.

However, to train a lower animal to hunt by merely example when it ran on four legs and he had two, when it used fangs and he used a spear . . . was difficult, to say the least. And, he had already been with the cat for six months now. He was a yautja warrior, not an animal trainer. Alone, he had conquered and killed a demonic xenomorph queen. His house on the yautja home planet resembled ancient Roman catacombs more than a residence, as nothing but skulls and bones lined the walls and ceilings. His doors were crafted from the giant shoulder blades of his kills.

It was dark now, and his eyes set upon a great big hairy goat with horns that spiraled upwards like giant twisted spikes. He stealthily moved among the rocks, crossing snow to get to another patch of exposed rock that was closer to the animal and put him in a better position for a kill. The young cat, with the look of adult was still somewhat smaller and a great deal clumsier, followed into position.

As the prey got closer, the cats mind wandered.

It stretched around to lick its shoulder blades and lifted each of its paws to clean between its toes. Before he could go after the prey, the cat stood and headed towards home. The giant goat quickly retreated at seeing the shadows in the rocks move. He was agitated and disappointed, but let the cat go back to the den. It was getting late in the night and he noticed that the cat was really only active during dawn and dusk for the most part. He would hunt alone and bring back food for the cat.

But then something occurred to him—He might have been feeding the cat too well, better than its mom would have been able too. After so many unsuccessful hunts, he would merely hunt alone to make sure the cat would not go hungry. But then where did the cat derive its motivation? Either way, it was fed, and so the hunts were merely fun games it could brush off as it pleased. . . That would change very quickly.

That night, he returned to the den empty handed.

As soon as he set his bone spear down among his pile of other belongings he had created—a knife carved from a horn, a carrying sac from fur and sinew, among other similar things—the cat lifted itself up to greet him. It forcefully rammed its head into his knee, and then rubbed its face on his legs. It was the oddest thing, yet he had taken it to mean a loving greeting and or a soft of affection for that particular specie.

When the cat continued to circle and rub at him, his hands delved into its thick pelt to stroke it, as this time it had nothing to feed it. The young cat began to purr loudly. When he withdrew his hands from its white/grey fur the cat threw itself onto its side with a flop and then rolled onto its back to expose its belly. He lowered himself to sit beside the cat and began to scoop up some of the snow, rubbing it on his skin to clean off some dry blood before he went to sleep.

The cat made every task difficult. It forced its big body between his arms to headbutt him and then gave his shoulder a light playful nibble. He gave up trying to clean himself off and let his back lower onto the rocks. The cat kept purring and rubbing on him and seemed content to fall asleep right on top of him.

With a growl, he shoved the big cat off him. The cat did not seem offended, and settled for snuggling up next to him as close as their bodies could be. He allowed his hand to brush through the cats soft fur until he fell asleep, equating the blissful coziness he felt to his warm fur bed on the ship he was used to, instead of admitting the fondness that he had grown for the cat.

After a while, hunger shaped the young leopards attention. It was patient, did not get distracted, and copied his movements to the best of its ability. On the next hunt, his steady red-green eyes locked onto a target within perfect range. Its horns reached back like giant half-circles and the animal had to be close to 250 pounds. The young leopard crouched beside him, ready and eager.

When the giant male goat with the magnificent horns began to turn away, he sprang into action, racing across the expanse of white snow after it. The cat matched his stride beside him. He had always hunted alone, but he had to admit having a fierce snow leopard as a hunting partner thrilled him. The goat huffed and began to speed away.

His smooth dreads whipped behind him, his hand gripped the spear of bone, and he forced his legs to run full speed until he saw blood. They gained on the goat kicking up snow at them as they got closer and closer. The young snow leopard was on one side, and the deadly predator was on the other. The goat had nowhere to go, yet he knew that the cat's stamina would not last him.

Finally, the cat turned into a predator.

It leaped, jaws closing on the goat's throat and claws digging into its hide. They tumbled in a spray of white snow but the cat was firmly latched onto its throat. Instinct took over from there, the cat pinning the animal down and clamping down its jaws until the animal suffocated to death.

He stood, proudly watching the cat he had raised. It had run beside him, and it had taken down very large prey. The cat slowly let go of its throat, smelling and pawing at the dead animal before its head dipped in to gnaw at its soft belly. Skin and fur peeled away easily. The cat's sharp teeth tore at the flesh and he watched the steam rise off from the carcass and the blood stain the snow with red.

They both engorged themselves and did not have to hunt or eat for many days. They were content to wrestle and play.

However, one successful hunt did not mean that the cat was an able hunter.

The young leopard was now a year old, and he watched it hunt without giving it any assistance. The cat was trying, and over and over it stalked and hunted but it did not catch a lot. He resisted the urge to feed the cat, even when it seemed it might starve. He watched the cat resort to catching birds around carcasses, which had little meat on them. When the birds became aware of his intentions, he could not catch birds and so he watched the young cat eat the rotting meat instead. When the cat could not find dead kills, he saw that the cat frequently ate grass and other plant matter.

Nevertheless, that was its chiva, its own test.

Hunting the black demon xenomorph aliens, many young yautja died trying to pass the test. The test was not taken once you have already honed and perfected your skills. It was not taken at an older age when you were prepared for it. That was the point. Life is unexpected and you can never be fully prepared for it, but those who live through it, were worthy of living and enjoying what life had to offer. If you had the will to keep living, your life was worthy.

This cat had to show that it could beat the odds, manage to feed itself before it was ready—and in that process, it would become ready.

That was the yautja way.

He lay down for the night, the oversized cat bounding into his lap to ram its head into his metal mask and thrum powerful purrs. Once he had given up unsuccessfully trying to wash off with snow every night, the cat took up the task of grooming him. It had been odd an uncomfortable at first, as the cat's tongue was rough like sandpaper. Nevertheless, he would not really think to object. The cat grooming him showed a level of care he had not expected to see. He had raised and fed it, and now it groomed and kept him company at night.

The idea of keeping a pet was starting to seem more appealing—and that meant that it was best that he left the cat. He could not allow himself to become attached.

As the months passed, he watched the young leopard for signs that it was self-sufficient. He convinced him self that his over-attentiveness was due to the fact that the cat was an endangered specie, otherwise he would have left it to its own devices already . . . yet he knew the real reason was simply because he did not want his Tarei'hasan to die.

Coming up the side of the mountain, he caught sight of the young cat waiting for him. It sat on a rocky ledge, its black spotted white/grey fur making it look like a mere ghost among the dark rocks. Its head was held high, regal grey eyes scanning the expanse of its territory.

The very tip of its tail swished back and forth . . . and suddenly it looked like a mirror image of its mother.

The young snow leopard looked confident and happy, and he suddenly knew it was time for him to go. He stopped dead in his tracks. The cat was ready. He had fulfilled his duties. He proudly stared up at the cat for a moment, silently saying goodbye, and then he turned back around to leave. He clicked the buttons on his wrist controls, met up with his ship, stepped up the hard metal ramp, and never looked back.

He sat down in the control chair, his mind flooded with memories.

The cat's big grey eyes, the way it kneaded at his side as a kitten, the feel of its silky soft and thick fur, the pressure on his skin as the cat would headbutt him, the sound of its mews as well as its angry snarls, and how the cat would stretch up to place its big paws on his shoulders. . .

He left Earth.

He left the cat.

. . . However, he could not stay away forever.

Fifteen Earth years later, he landed his ship in the same spot as before. He did not know if the cat had made it, but he was determined to find out.

Under his cloaking device, he sought out and stalked a snow leopard on the mountain once more. This glorious cat within the same territory, with light grey eyes and painted fur a mix of white, grey, and tan was a picture of health—but it was not his cat. It was another female.

He would not feel defeated just yet, as he had missed the little nuisance once before when he first came to Earth to hunt, and so he followed the snow leopard female. As before, the cat eventually went to its den, which was the same spot he had slept for a year beside the big cat. . . And as before, Tarei'hasan was there curled asleep on the rocks.

The cat was alive and well, and he had told himself that was all he needed to know.

But he could not force himself to leave so quickly.

As soon as he dropped his cloaking device, the female hissed and backed away. His Tarei'hasan jumped to his feet protectively. He did not hiss or snarl, though he had not been sure if he would remember him or attack him.

The leopard ran at him and leapt up to hug its paws on his shoulder, the weight of the fully-grown cat almost causing him to loose balance. The cat purred and immediately began rubbing its face on his mask. He hugged his arms around the giant cat before wrestling it to the ground playfully just as they had years ago.

The yautja warrior played tag with the big cat, wrestled it, and hunted with it again. He knew he could not stay long, and his cat's female mate did not like him being around at all anyway. However, before he left, Tarei'hasan surprised him.

After a hunt, the cat grabbed a hold of the goat's leg and showed great strength as he drug the heavy body up to the predator. A gift. A very big dead gift from a very big cat. He gave the cat a doting pet on the head, rubbing his ears, and then his eyes went to the horns on the goat. They were the tall ones that spiraled. He cleaned the skull and looked into the cats eyes. He knew this would be the last time he would see the cat—another cycle, many Earth years, and the cat would be dead.

He turned and marched threw the freezing snow and wind back to his ship.

That gifted skull became the only skull in his collection that he had not personally killed, and one he would have never been able to kill, as it was from a herbivore and the yautja only killed other predators.

He hung the skull up on the wall of his ship beside the one of the cat's mother's. He would never forget. . .


End file.
